


Cleaning Up the Past

by GypsyMoon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mending, adapting, washing machine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:45:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyMoon/pseuds/GypsyMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adapting is never easy, especially for a brainwashed assassin who is used to have everything done for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning Up the Past

The rich scent of  dark roast coffee wafted in the air of the entire apartment. It is a comforting and familiar smell of the past that Bucky responds to as he brings the ceramic rim of a full mug to his full lips, and inhales the steam making his nose twitch.

He kept his head lower and eyes focus on captured, tarnished photographs of the Brooklyn he remembered growing up on the paved streets, the smell of yeast hovering through clusters of brownstone apartments, and the mystery hidden beyond the shadows under the iron structure of the bridge.

His metallic alloy hand flipped through the sealed plastic pages, as he scanned his dismal gaze over memories of the Howling Commandos, the great men he served, fought and lived with on the battlefield when he was a young sergeant of the 107th infantry, carrying his Springfield rifle through the thick darkness of forest, leading his group of men through the rapid bombardments of heavy artillery fire, inhaling the cold stench of death, dirt and blood as his laced boots sunk into the muddy earth. Those are dim fragments of memory, glimmers of past that he can only relive while he stares at the footage and photo albums. He was blinded by darkness, forced to wear scales of red over his eyes, and thrown into a coffin of ice. He was alone and forgotten.

He wanted to wipe the slate clean, restore his vitality and finally taste the freedom of escaping the horrors of his condemn past. Sighing, Bucky keeps his lips neutral, his chiseled, heavy jaw flexed and his eyebrows twitched up as he read silently over the coffee stained articles preserved carefully in thin coatings of plastic, he always focused on the easy words since he still reads most of his collection of library books through Russian translation. He felt still trapped in a world of isolation, prosecuted by his demons and paralyzed by truth. He martyred himself to caution, fighting against the urges to kill, to slay a life, he battles with his existence every day. He was slowly crawling out of the pit, embracing the light the world has to offer. Every day, he found a new word in the dictionary to use when he speaks to people. He knew his name, his birthday and the location of his parents' graves. He knew that he was once an honorable soldier, a decent kid from Brooklyn, and that he is the best friend of Captain Steven Grant Rogers.

When he slipped back into the void of the Winter Soldier, he just needed to stare into the stern, crystal blue eyes of his friend to pull from out of the red, suffocating chasms of HYDRA. Steve was always there to save him. He knew that Steve was  his hope that always shines in the darkness of his nightmares.

Now, Bucky was adapting to the normalcy, although he rarely goes outdoors, he restored the humanity that was stolen from him by reading, talking and eating. He loved Steve's cooking, no more boiling  food in a pot of water. He had acquired a taste for cheesy pizza, ice- cream and anything that makes his taste buds jump within contact of flavor. He never felt the emptiness in his stomach.

"Hey, Buck?" Steve's calm and serene voice echoed in his ears. It had become a distraction, grumbling under his breath, the reformed assassin whipped his head alarmingly up, and glowered at the super-soldier with his intent, feral glacial blue eyes. His eyebrows creased into a line of confusion as he raked his sharp gaze over his best friend, standing in the doorway of outside the guest bedroom.

Steve inched closer, clad in workout clothing-a white muscle shirt and jeans fitted perfectly at his hip line. He wore his spiked golden locks ruffled and part at the hairline as the sunlight gleams in his steady blue eyes that twinkled with enthusiasm and life. He looks like an offspring of the Greek goddess of war and wisdom, bright lights sculpts over his jagged cheekbones and chiseled jaw as he stands outside the room with his empowering strength, nobility and compassion. "Do you want to do something fun?"

Bucky pinched the ridge of his nose, trying to ignore his friend's words, but then he cocked up one eyebrow, unsure how to reply. He swallowed and narrowed his piercing stare at the hand towel clutched in Steve's large hand. "What do you have in mind?" he asked with a simple question growling under his breath and he timidly grimaced/

"I want you to start taking care of your own laundry." Steve speaks in a firm voice. "When you're living under my roof, I expect you to clean up after yourself, Buck." He leveled his unyielding gaze at Bucky, taking a moment to muse over his friend's visage. He was still baffled on how much Bucky has change in the past six weeks, his laden dark brown, shoulder lengthened hair was trimmed and ended at the nape of his broad neck. His complexion was a healthy glow and facial curvatures smooth. He looks like the old James Barnes again, apart from the wavy hair. Steve notices lines of abuse under his blue eyes, hidden scars etched in layers of skin and needle marks on the side of his neck. Inside the barriers of his body, he felt the knots of remorse churn in his stomach, but he refused to allow his friend to see his own torment.

He averted his passive eyes, and fixed  gaze on piles of clothing, books and empty milk cartons. "Buck, you need to start caring about your life. This room looks like a mess. I want you on your feet, soldier and pick up your clothes."

"Don't give me orders, Steve." Bucky uttered out a fierce growl, his jaw tightened.

"Alright, as your friend, I want you to clean up your room and follow me to the washing machine."

Scowling, with  molten anger flashing in his eyes, Bucky nodded at Steve, seething angrily as he rises from the bed, and started gathering his heaps of clothing from the floor. He did not say a word and trailed behind the tall soldier with slow and methodical steps of purpose until he halted in front of a massive washer filling with cascades of water. He threw everything into the drum of machine, poured a cup full of liquid soap and slammed the metal top shut. He pivoted on his bare soles, and glared at Steve. "Are you happy now, Rogers?" he grunted out, stiffening his lips.

Steve curved the edges of his lips into a small, tentative smirk and replied back, "Well, it's a start, Buck."

Bucky growled up his throat, and shook his head. "You're an annoying punk, you know that right?"

"Yeah." Steve unabashedly smiled back, mirroring a tender gaze at his best friend leaning against the washer. "I know...."

Shaking his head, Bucky slung his metal plated arm over the span of Steve's shoulders. "You're also a good friend. " He declared with an honest voice. "One of the best I have ever known, Steve."

Steve felt a piece of his broken heart mend back into place.


End file.
